A month later.

The Oregon house was smaller than the penthouse, cozier, with creaky floorboards and windows that let in too much morning light. I loved it.

I was unpacking the last box from my old apartment when I found it—a spiral notebook with a faded purple cover, edges worn from being shoved in and out of backpacks throughout high school.

"What's that?" Ryder asked, looking up from where he was assembling our new bookshelf.

"My old dream journal. From sophomore year, I think." I flipped ...